A Torn Notebook - Property of Rebekka Citreola

"Do you remember the old times, in Ashenvale, Rebekka?"Teorius Darkcast looked down upon her from the back of his steed. She was walking alongside him - her own horse, which had served with her for so many years, was now lost to the mercy of the Blasted Lands.She nodded, moving her fingertips in patterns over the surface of the empty urn in her arms."Most certainly..."From behind, she could hear Shadeweaver jeer."And when does she stop carrying that tin can?"She ignored him, tracing her fingers along the invisible shape of a scythe."The battle at the tower, against the elves, when we searched for the Artifact. Remember those times when we, when you, stood and fought, defending Duskmantle, remember, and have the knowledge you did all that could have been expected of you, and more."Rebekka looked down at her feet, unsure of what to say."We were few, outnumbered and overpowered. But we held ground, you made us do that, and that helped the Master escape."Rebekka looked up again, her arms forming a firmer embrace of the urn. How she wished she was back there, before all of this happened. Before this tragedy. This awful loss."He did choose his own end, and we should remember what he was for us - as a testament to his genious, his wisdom."And his moral, his honour, his bravery, she added silently.Rebekka swallowed, and looked up at Teorius, her answer not much stronger than a whisper."Thank you."As they continued, she was not drawing scythes any more, but letters. Four letters, that would be her future, her meaning and goal. She knew it was what her Master would have wanted.Cure.

Rebekka glared at the potion flasks - almost as if they would glare back at her at any moment. In fact, she could picture them laughing at her. That certainly didn't make her mood any better."Perks", he had called them. Perks for a job well done. She snorted. It was nothing but a pure bribe. Did he actually think she could be bought for a couple of potions and some new gauntlets?! No, what she was about to do, she wouldn't do for all the shiny armour and golden coins in the world - but for the organization. Though, this fact didn't ease her guilt. She would be doing exactly what he asked of her. It was undeniable. He's not stupid, far from, she thought, throwing the flasks one last condescending glance. I have to be careful - or I might as well find myself playing right into his filthy, unworthy hands.

Slash, stab, parry, dodge. The pattern was etched to every outline of every thought. Slash, stab, parry, dodge.She was a machine, repeating them over and over again. Trying to reach perfection. Slash, stab, parry, dodge.She never would.

She had no idea how much time had passed since she entered the War Quarters, with the unfamiliar weight of the scythe in her right hand. This weapon was a mystery to her. Never had she held a weapon that she could not bend to her will - this one even seemed to bend her own. Never had she held a weapon that felt so alive.After hours and hours of relentless practise, after too many "slash, stab, parry, dodge" to count, she finally halted. Glancing down at the weapon in her hands, she imagined something growing inside of it, squirming, snaring her with it's vicious energy. Trapping her thoughts and clouding her vision.She used to be so sure. As soon as she held the scythe for the very first time, she had known. Known that the weapon would serve no master, no Queen, no Apothecarium. Wielded by her own strength, it would serve a purpose, and a memory. But that feeling... it was drifting now. Drowning in the confusion, the anger, the sorrow.She took a deep breath, lifting the scythe again. What else could she do.Slash, stab, parry, dodge.For the first time in seven years, she felt empty. There had never before been an emptiness to feel.